


choosing this life

by neroh



Series: a moth to flame [4]
Category: Bourne (Movies), Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Healing Sex, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9400112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: He recalls Kirill mentioning the island located in the south of the Azores, where it’s surrounded by a calm sea and literal paradise for someone who needs to reset. Somewhere that doesn’t go silent when he walks into the office or the awestruck whispering that follows.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bre is the best, most patient beta in the world. xo

Madeira seems like the type of place to find an escape.

In Jack Ryan’s case, he needs a destination where everyone is a stranger. The type of surroundings where he can blend in and breathe with Kirill by his side. He wants the quiet of anonymity and warm air around him, where there are no reminders of his past deeds or the people he couldn’t save.

He recalls Kirill mentioning the island located in the south of the Azores, where it’s surrounded by a calm sea and literal paradise for someone who needs to reset. Somewhere that doesn’t go silent when he walks into the office or the awestruck whispering that follows.

Jack lives and breathes those terrible months of isolation with every moment he’s awake. Even when he’s tucked in the safety of Kirill’s warm embrace, it’s far worse as he sleeps. Try as he might, Jack can never seem to find the words to speak of it.

It’s an abyss deep within his soul, waiting to drain him of all of the good memories—however few they are.

But Kirill knows; he _always_ does. He looks upon Jack with all of the tenderness in the world and knows his boyfriend needs space. More space than New York City can provide.

“Do you remember what I said?” Kirill whispers one night as they lie in bed. They’re in their apartment and basking in its familiarity now that Kirill is no longer in the hospital. He’s stroking a span of Jack’s arm left uncovered by his t-shirt. “When this was over, we would go on a vacation.”

He nods, inching closer to Kirill. “Somewhere warm and quiet,” Jack says back, reaching to touch his boyfriend’s face. “Where I could read my books and you could play chess.”

“ _Da_ ,” Kirill replies, kissing his brow. “I know of a place; we could leave tomorrow if you’d like. The air always smells of the ocean and wine - the Portuguese love their wine. The weather is perfect for dining and making love outside. We can stay in bed all day and I’ll kiss every sadness away.”

Jack huffs a gentle laugh at that. “You’d do that anyways.”

“Mmm, true,” the other man agrees. He rubs the tips of their noses together. “This place will heal you, _Yagnenok_.”

It’s a funny thing to hear coming from a man whose chest holds a freshly healed scar just over his heart. The skin is still pink, baring the track marks of recently removed stitches. Jack knows it will fade into retirement like the others.

“Your wounds are on the inside,” Kirill says as if he’s read Jack’s mind. “I can see the pain they cause you, even when you hide it.” A pair of hazel eyes roam over his face; the protector dwelling inside the other man glints back in the dim light. “We can come back if you wish.”

He sighs, breaking eye contact as he goes to stare out the window. The sky is not black, but tinged orange from light pollution.

Jack pictures this place—vibrant and beautiful with people and their bright smiles, offering every tourist a chance to live in paradise.

To throw away careful planning and embrace life.

“Okay,” he says after some hesitation. Jack smiles at Kirill, nodding. “Let’s go.”

The next morning, he calls Tom and Pamela from the international terminal at JFK to tell them that he and Kirill are cashing in their much needed vacation time. Jack never mentions the open-ended return date, only saying they’ll be back soon.

 

* * *

 

Soon is all relative, Jack decides from the moment he steps off the plane.

The late spring brings a pleasant stickiness and humidity from afternoon thunderstorms, washing away the morning and beginning anew by three. Their first day on the island, he and Kirill buy a six pack of beer and watch the rain underneath the overhang of their rented villa. Unlike the New England storms of his childhood, these are refreshing.

Jack holds his hand out just beyond the gutter, watching as his skin is splattered with raindrops, and marvels at the obvious differences between here and New York City.

Madeira is lush and green; the fragrant flora is in constant bloom while the skies are a vivid blue. Even the sand is noticeably more golden, each granule perfectly crushed to feel like the softest surface when they walk along the beach.

They keep the windows open, letting in fresh air as Kirill makes use of the large kitchen and cooks them dinner. Jack sits at the table, reading a book only to glance up every so often to observe his boyfriend unawares. No longer pale from recovery, Kirill hums to himself as he slices up pieces of cod and deposits them into a pan filled with vegetables.

He muses he could sit there forever, just watching the elegant way Kirill’s body moves. All those years under Russia’s thumb may have turned him into a killer, but it’s freedom that shows his true personality. The man whose humor is as sharp as his tongue, his sense of loyalty, the gentleness hidden deep within—it unfolds the longer they’re together.

Never did Jack expect to fall in love with him; he recalls a time where he loathed and feared Kirill’s presence. They were in Minsk then, where he was hidden in plain sight and Kirill was his minder. In those agonizing first weeks as Cathy’s duplicity was revealed to him, Jack had been less than pleasant to be around.

The other man handled him with never ending patience until both of them gave in to attraction. From there, he and Kirill forged a relationship in the ashes of Jack’s previous life.

He wouldn’t change it, that’s for certain. For all the hurt and betrayal Jack experienced, having Kirill by his side makes every bit of pain worth it.

Jack becomes lost in the other man, just watching in awe until Kirill happens to glance up. Their eyes meet across the room and a slow smile grows upon the other man’s face. “Are you spying on me?” Kirill asks, teasingly.

“What if I am?” Jack counters as he sets his book face down upon the table and leans back in his seat. He returns Kirill’s expression with a smirk.

Kirill shrugs. “Then you are and I’ve caught you,” he says, very matter-of-factly. His dark hair has grown out in the months since they left Minsk, becoming a near-black curtain that falls over his eyes in messy profusion. He leaves it there and returns to cooking.

 _I’ll let you catch me_ , Jack decides as he goes back to his book. _Like you always have._

 

* * *

 

Three days in they decide to rent a boat.

It’s Kirill’s idea. He’s been itching to get onto the calm seas for a bit of fishing and unplugging from the rest of the world. Jack smiles as his boyfriend excitedly walks up and down the dock, inspecting boats with a critical eye.

He chats with a few of the operators, asking them various questions before politely deferring his decision and proceeding to the next one. It appears that some of them know what they’re doing, some of them don’t, and others want to rip him off because they are under the assumption that Kirill doesn’t know better.

His Russian accent is ever present while Jack, with his pasty complexion, is clearly American. The two of them make an odd pair to the locals.

If Kirill's recent brush with death has taught Jack anything, it’s that his boyfriend is as stubborn as they come when he’s set his mind to something.

Hot and hungry, Jack leaves Kirill to his task while he breaks for lunch in a local diner. Storm clouds loom over the horizon, darkening the western portion of the sky when he takes a seat by the window. After ordering the special, Jack drinks from the glass of water that’s been set down in front of him and people-watches.

His meal arrives as Kirill comes excitedly into the establishment, beaming like a young boy given an unexpected gift. “I found us a boat,” he declares, sitting down. His fingers dance over to Jack’s plate, stealing a bit of food from it.

“Hey!” Jack exclaims, tapping his boyfriend’s hand away. “Get your own.”

Kirill rolls his eyes, muttering something in Russian. It’s undoubtedly a playful jibe, though Jack’s knowledge of the language is still subpar. “It’s docked at the end of the harbor,” he continues. “Slip thirty-eight.”

“And who is going to captain this boat?” Jack inquires before shoving a forkful of fish into his mouth. As he chews, he raises a questioning brow.

“I know of someone,” Kirill replies. He has a devious glint to his eyes; as if he knows a punchline to a joke before Jack. “He’s a very trustworthy captain.”

He snorts. “Oh, he is?” Jack chuckles. “Who might he be?”

Kirill steals the fork from him and digs into Jack’s meal. “That’s a secret,” he teases between bites. “A tourist like yourself wouldn’t know.”

“A tourist?” Jack barks, unable to contain his laughter. He buries his face into his palms, allowing his amusement to shake his entire body. Wiping tears from his eyes, he nudges Kirill’s calf under the table. “What does _that_ make _you_?”

“Practically a local,” his boyfriend says, offering him the fork.

While they share Jack’s lunch, he begins to wonder what Kirill has up his sleeve. The other man has never been the secretive type in all the time Jack’s known him. It seems he wants to keep Jack in suspense, which suits him just fine.

They linger inside of the diner as an afternoon rainstorm comes through the area. It lasts for the better part of an hour until the sun peeks through, signaling its end.

“Come,” Kirill beckons, tangling their fingers together as he leads Jack from the diner. His excitement is infectious for it’s rare for his boyfriend to be anything but stoic. Only in private does Kirill’s stone-like demeanor crack, revealing a bright smile and honeyed laughter.

Apparently Madeira has an effect on him that Jack never expected.

They find the slip easily enough thanks to Kirill’s initiate ability for directions. As the two men come upon it, Jack is surprised to find a pristine Baglietto eighty-eight foot Marconi Ketch 1928. The craftsmanship of the cruiser is exquisite for what very little he knows of boats. As he stands alongside it, Jack admires everything from the solid oak frame to the white sails rolled into the mast.

He may be wary of his old life, but he can’t help when Kirill offers him a new one. Without thinking, Jack presses his against the side while gold letters catch his attention. _Veles_ they read under the glittering sun.

“The god of earth, water, forests and the underworld,” Kirill whispers into his ear. He presses his body into Jack’s back, bringing two very capable hands to his hips. “This is what we call him, the ruler of the ocean. Slavic people give names to those they respect.”

Jack nods, enthralled. “Have you ever driven a boat?”

“Many times,” his boyfriend admits. A hand leaves Jack’s body to dig into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a set of keys. They dingle from his fingers, glinting back at Jack.

It dawns upon him that this boat being here is no coincidence. “This is yours,” Jack states, eyes widening in surprise. “This is your boat?”

“Of course it’s mine,” Kirill says as he continues down the slip and up the ramp towards the deck.

In the short time they’ve been on the island, the sun has shown special attention to Kirill’s once pale skin. He’s all golden now, defining his muscles and making his eyes appear as if they belonged to an unearthly beautiful creature. The irises are myriad of colors—green, amber, and turquoise lined at the edges in near black instead of the murky hue they took on while he was convalescing.

“Are you going to come up?” Kirill asks. His heart shaped face appears over the rail of the boat, raising a brow in curiosity.

Jack covers his eyes with his hand and shrugs. “I was waiting for an invitation.”

Kirill’s laughter rings out as clear as bell. “ _Da_ ,” he tells him. “Welcome aboard, _Yagnenok_! And have a beer while you’re at it.”

 

* * *

 

“I bought it after my first mission,” Kirill explains.

They are seated in a pair of deck chairs, facing the calm water while each man has a beer in hand.

“And you never thought to tell me?” Jack teases as he watches the other man drink from his bottle.

The liquid moves down the elegant column of Kirill’s neck. “You never asked,” he answers with a smile.

“Here I thought you were going to say something romantic,” Jack deadpans. This earns a playful shove from his boyfriend. “I never pictured you with a boat.”

Kirill shrugs in understanding. “I used it to escape,” he explains. “This was the only place I could get away from my handlers without raising any suspicions.”

“Makes sense,” Jack agrees. Leaning closer to his boyfriend, he rests a hand upon his knee. “Is that why you wanted us to come here? So we could escape?”

“Not to escape,” he corrects, grinning. “To have room to breathe. You never had that once you left Minsk…and I could see what it’s doing to you.” Kirill reaches for Jack’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Sometimes, _Yagnenok_ , you need someone to watch over you.”

He nods, moving his stare from Kirill’s earnest face to the whitecaps glittering like diamonds. He thinks of the engagement ring and wedding band he once gave Cathy, now missing. They’re just specks compared to what lies in front of him.

The other man follows his gaze. “Let me help you.”

“I suppose we can’t disappear out there for forever, huh?” Jack jokes, though his tone falls flat. A cool hand comes to rest upon his nape, chilly from holding a beer bottle. He closes his eyes and sighs.

Kirill’s lips brush against his temple. “Not out there,” he says. “But perhaps we can make a new home here.”

A new home elsewhere—this island—should only be a pipe dream. The way Kirill mentions it resonates so deeply within the broken parts of Jack’s soul. He hasn’t been able to relax— _truly_ relax—in ages. His life has a been a constant state of motion and doing, the cycle never ends. He’s been so lost in the whirlwind that it takes Kirill to bring it to his attention.

“Jack?” Kirill is tilting his head in worry. The sun catches his eyes, setting the irises on an amber-colored fire.

He blinks, his brain coming up to speed. “Just thinking is all,” Jack assures, forcing a grin. It falls as a sigh huffs out. “I haven’t…it’s been awhile since I’ve been to just sit and have a beer.”

“Ah,” Kirill utters in understanding.

It strikes Jack as strange that this man has been able to figure him out from the very beginning, without the need for further elaboration. Jack has always had to explain himself; to his family, to his friends, to his superior officers, to Cathy.

To everyone except Kirill.

Not having to say anymore is freeing; the next inhale and exhales unravels the tight coil of stress inside of him. Jack pictures the heavy emotion to be a rope untying itself from a knot suspended in midair. It drops unceremoniously to ground.

“Can we leave tomorrow?” he asks.

It’s long after sunset and they’re back in the villa. Kirill’s just come out of the bathroom, naked except for the towel he’s currently rubbing through his wet hair. “Tomorrow?” the other man questions.

Jack nods, feeling a bit jauntier than his usual wont.

“ _Da_ ,” Kirill replies. He crawls over the mattress to kiss him. “Tomorrow it is.”

He dreams of the ocean that night; its vast darkness and the unknown that lurks underneath its waves. When he peers into the water, Jack is greeted by the silhouette of Kirill’s reflection.

A silent reminder that his presence is always there, keeping watch even as Jack falls into a deeper slumber and the first thing he thinks of when he wakes.

 

* * *

 

With calm waters and sunny skies, Jack and Kirill set out without much pomp and circumstance.

His boyfriend is more than happy to teach him his way around the boat, inviting him to help with the cruiser. They talk while they work as conversation comes easily between them. It wasn’t always that way, especially in the beginning. Now, Jack can’t imagine sharing his deepest secrets and desires with anyone else.

Most of the time he listens to Kirill, who speaks of the ocean like he’s just as ancient. He paints the various places he’s been like poetry that weaves itself into a color masterpiece. The water isn’t just blue, but comprised of the most vibrant shades of cerulean and turquoise; the beach is white or golden, and in some cases black.

“I went to one place where the shoreline was entirely comprised of pebbles,” Kirill explains as he guides the cruiser through the waves of the Atlantic. “Like little jewels shining in the sun for miles and miles. They were so smooth from being polished by the waves.”

Jack reckons he could probably close his eyes and see the shores of Belize, Thailand, and Ireland as vividly as Kirill describes them.

His boyfriend has a way with words, which is definitely not a Russian thing. Kirill’s baritone is melodic in its own right and to hear him speak is unfathomably beautiful.

Like a siren’s song, except the only place Jack will drown is in the kaleidoscope of his eyes.

Once they situate the cruiser, they partake in a bit of swimming in the crystal clear waters of Madeira. Jack watches as Kirill shucks his t-shirt and shorts, revealing miles of golden skin and a column of freckles down his spine. Only his ass is slightly paler than the rest of him, from the brief glance Jack gets before the other man jumps buck naked into the water.

His graceful form cuts through the waves. Jack tracks his progress as Kirill dives down into the depths, nearly disappearing, and comes back up for air.

Water falls from his body in fast moving rivulets, tracing a pathway over muscle until it reaches the ocean once again.

Jack finds that looking at Kirill is like a spell being cast upon his very soul.

“Are you going to keep staring at my ass or will you be joining me?” his boyfriend teases, obviously cottoned to this fact.

Instead of being embarrassed, he laughs. “Give me a second,” he calls back, removing his own clothing. Jack feels the sun kissing his bare skin. With a hooping holler, he cannonballs into the water.

Unlike the tides that curl around the edges of New England, the waters of Madeira are welcoming. There’s nothing to fear as his body is submerged and cradled by the ocean’s depths. When he surfaces, Kirill is there to pull Jack against his chest and kiss him.

The other man tastes of sea and brine—it’s in their surroundings after all —and grows stronger until it’s all that consumes Jack’s palette. They latch onto each other: Kirill holding onto his waist with a single arm while the other keeps them above the water. Jack wraps his legs around the other man’s middle and buries his fingers into Kirill’s salt encrusted hair, groaning as their skin rubs against each other.

They have an active sex life, but the rawness of this encounter is different from the other times. All of the tension Jack’s been carrying has been stripped away and there’s no barrier between them.

Kirill sucks upon his bottom lip, nibbling on the sensitive flesh before surging forward with his tongue. Jack moans, feeling as if his entire body has been set ablaze. He pulls the older man closer to him, grasping onto whatever his hands can find, wanting so much more than just a kiss in the ocean.

“Please,” Jack chokes out when they part. He stares into the multi-colored abyss of Kirill’s eyes. “ _Please_.”

What he’s begging for is unsaid, but Kirill understands. They swim back to the cruiser and board quickly using the ladder perched on the side. As soon as both men set foot on the deck, Kirill takes Jack by the hand and leads him below.

Inside the confinement of the cruiser, Jack finds himself in the middle of the cabin as the older man goes to his knees, kissing an invisible path from lips to the protrusion of his hipbone. Kirill pauses in various spots: both of Jack’s nipples until they are ringed with mouth-shaped bruises and knotted into hard pebbles, the right side of his rib cage, and the bit of skin above his navel.

When Kirill nears his erection, Jack is turned around and nudged to brace himself against the bed.

Teeth playfully bite the globes of his cheeks while a hand massages the sensation left behind. Jack groans in anticipation, spreading his legs just a bit wider to balance his equilibrium. The scrape of tongue teases a line of saliva into his skin, writing an invisible story as Kirill explores him.

The older man’s mouth nears the dusky crease between his ass, going lower and lower until Jack gasps in surprise. The sensation is strange—he hasn't had this done to him in a while—though not unwelcoming as Kirill’s hands spread his cheeks before running his tongue over the cleft of him.

He listens to Kirill’s hum of pleasure as he licks and sucks on the tight bud of the young man’s hole, slowly willing it to loosen. The vibrations travel straight to his straining erection as it becomes wet with precum. Jack grunts and curls his fingers into the bedspread as the tip of Kirill’s tongue slips inside of him.

His hole flutters around the slippery intrusion, clenching as the older man swirls it around to taste the very essence of Jack. Once he’s been sufficiently covered with saliva, a finger joins Kirill’s tongue and Jack finds himself crying out in surprise.

Kirill works the younger man open with infinite patience and slow ministrations that would drive anyone else insane with desire. Jack is all wordless sounds and trembling as he succumbs to the other man’s attention. His cock becomes impossibly hard between his thighs and creates a stain on the light blue bedspread, which neither of them cares about.

“You taste amazing, _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill murmurs once he’s had his fill. He rakes his teeth over the small of Jack’s back, lapping up the sweat that’s gathered there. As his lips near the span of skin under his armpit, Kirill turns Jack back up to hover over him.

The expression washed over his handsome face is absolutely feral.

“Can I make love to you?” he asks, bestowing a kiss to one of Jack’s freckles. Kirill glances up from behind a fan of black lashes. “Will you let make love to you in this bed?”

Bewitched, entranced, possessed, whatever writers say about being in love—that unexplainable pull that continues to draw Jack to Kirill—it gives way to a nod of acknowledgment. He spies a dimpled smile as the man reaches for something out of sight and comes back with a bottle of lubricant.

Once Kirill begins to prep him, slipping slick fingers between his cheeks and inching them into his passage, Jack understands what it’s like to wholly surrender himself to another. His body opens himself up to his lover, stretching and adjusting to take more of Kirill is offering.

He’s a shaking mess by the time a third finger is wiggling its way alongside the other two, hips meeting each of the other man’s thrusts. Jack goes to bite his lip, only to find Kirill’s thumb brushing against the abused flesh. He flicks his tongue out, tasting the salt gathered on the pad of his lover’s appendage. He reaches for him, bringing their mouths together in a hungry kiss.

He tastes the salt of his skin and from inside himself on his own tongue, mixed in with Kirill. It’s a heady sensation to blend in so easily.

Jack nearly cums from fucking himself on Kirill’s fingers and dragging his hard cock against the other man’s thigh. He feels the wave coming from a distance and lets out a muffled noise of warning, pulling back to speak. “Kirill, I want you in me,” he pants, lost in his lover’s eyes. “I want to feel you in me when I…”

He doesn’t need to say anymore.

Kirill withdraws his fingers to slick up his own hard length, leaving Jack wide open and desperate for something to fill him. His lover’s cock catches on the loose ring of muscle of his hole before pushing in.

It’s like being speared through his very soul, the way Kirill guides himself into Jack. The young man finds that words are out of reach and he lays open mouth as his lover fills every part of him. He can taste him on his tongue, smell him sinking into his pores, and comprise every sound. This man who he loves so desperately burrows himself deep into Jack, never to seep out.

Not that he’d let him.

Something instead of him loosens and an instant later, he is full of Kirill’s cock. Jack moans in disbelief at the way this man fits into his body, burning him up from deep within. Nerves throbbing and pulsing, he curls his fingers into the nape of his lover’s neck and mouths at his skin, silently urging him on.

The world around them fades and there is only Jack and Kirill inside of the main cabin as they writhe on the bedspread. Time could stand time or end for all either of them care; so long as he can feel his lover’s golden skin against his own, listen to his laughter, and watch dimples form when he smiles, Jack doesn’t care.

He just wants Kirill; he’s wanted nothing more than this man.

His lover’s cock hits a spot that unfurls and sends a lightning bolt through his spine. Jack’s howls fill the small space and he clenches around Kirill, digging his fingers into the other man’s muscles. His body flails as Jack rides out the shock of it, desperately and wordlessly directing his lover to do it again.

And again and again and again.

Until Jack has no choice but to split open and scream his pleasure for everyone to hear.

Kirill keeps plunging into him, stroking the fire from within and creating a tempest between them. He must sense it as Jack’s climax builds, for his lover runs a finger along the line of his jaw and whispers, “I have you.”

He holds him as their bodies move in sync, as Kirill’s balls slap against him, as their skin becomes slick with sweat, and as the dull ache of Jack’s orgasm builds and builds.

Burying his face into his lover’s neck at the same time Kirill takes his cock in hand, Jack digs his teeth into the tender skin. The bite must sting something fierce, but it doesn’t cause Kirill’s rhythm to falter. A calloused palm teases his sensitive cockhead, followed by a thumb tracing over the ridges with each stroke.

He cries out, oxygen becoming harder and harder to swallow as Kirill breaks through any resistance in his body to seek out that spot makes him dizzy. There’s no respite from the precise thrusts, only Jack’s incoherent pleas and the sound of Kirill meeting his body.

Jack bares down and is lost in the sea of their lovemaking. He drowns in the waves of his pleasure, of Kirill riding him to the highest of highs and bringing him back down to solid ground. Jack hardly notices the mess his release has made between their chests or that his throat has become sore.

Through blurry vision, he is able to make out the shape of Kirill’s face above as he finds his own orgasm. Jack feels his lover’s body trembling and shuddering as he unloads himself.

They are able to catch their breath once lethargy settles in, slow like molasses and sweet like honey.

 

* * *

 

When they aren’t fishing or swimming, they spend the passing time in a tangle of limbs and heaving chests.

And when Jack and Kirill aren’t relearning each other’s bodies, they talk. It’s not the idle chit-chat of pillow talk, but of revelation. Neither of them wants to fully commit themselves to the humdrum life they left in New York, a life they each find draining.

“What about here?” Kirill asks. He’s lying on his stomach and relaxing into the nonsensical, invisible lines Jack is tracing from freckle to freckle. Tilting his head, he turns to the other man. “Would you want to live here in Madeira? Part-time?

Glancing up from his ministrations, Jack is sure that his face is washed in a startled expression. “Here?”

Their eyes meet in the fading light of the sun as his question hangs over them. Jack goes to lie alongside him, resting his chin upon Kirill’s shoulder. “Do you want to live here?”

“I want to be anywhere you are,” his lover answers.

The statement—so fragile and deep in meaning—brings the sting of tears to Jack’s eyes. “You would do that?” he asks, his voice trembling with emotion. “You would choose this life?”

“ _Yagnenok_ ,” Kirill whispers, wiping away Jack’s tears. “I would choose any life so long as you’re here with me.”

He presses his head into the curve of his lover’s shoulder, listening to his pulse as it beats along with Kirill’s heart. Jack realizes the implications of such a decision—they would be starting over together and he would finally be set free of his past.

All with this beautiful man by his side.

“Ask me again,” Jack intones.

A chuckle fills his ears as Kirill runs his fingers through Jack’s hair. “Would you live in Madeira with me, _Yagnenok_?” he murmurs against his forehead.

“Yes,” Jack answers. “A thousand lifetimes and more, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
